Shadowfist: Once Upon a Time in 2056
by Cavebear Stroud
Summary: A brief look into the future juncture of the Shadowfist world. The Architects are still running the world, freedom is still hosed, the environment is still toast, and people still have bad days...


**ONCE UPON A TIME IN 2056**, Shadowfist fanfiction, by Cavebear

**CHAPTER 1:**

**DNA Mage**

**Occult Scientist**

The monorail stopped at the security checkpoint for routine inspection. Charles idly looked out the window at the scenery as Tanner, the BuroCop on duty, checked the ids of all aboard with a scanwand. In the distance the skyline faded into the hazy smog, which was Boston's atmosphere. Much closer, the laser turrets and barbed wire of BuroTech Research #5's perimeter contrasted starkly with the lawns and flowers beautifying the grounds around the laboratories, reminding Charles once again of who ultimately paid his wages.

As the monorail left the checkpoint, Charles thought back on his college days. Who would have thought that someone once as free-thinking as he had been would now be one of the Buro of Public Order's finest high-tech wageslaves. Slave in the sense that if he wished to quit without giving the Buro its two years notice, he would have to undergo mandatory memory reprogramming, something Charles dreaded, as would any sane free-minded individual. Still, the job was not without its entertainment value, he mused as the monorail squealed to a stop and began disgorging its cargo.

After all, today was going to be quite a day.

Benson Wong, Associate Director of Research, BTR5, was a hard man to please. A difficult taskmaster at the best of times, he had become almost impossible since the incident at BTR1. Several of BuroMil's finest prospects, cyborg primates, had managed to escape from Benson's lab, killing some VIPs and causing an astronomical amount of property damage. This latest special research project was his last chance to redeem himself; a fact not lost on Charles or any of the other team leaders. They gathered for the briefing in a conference room that was much nicer than any of their offices or labs. In late was Ignacio Rodriguez, eyes bloodshot and hair disheveled, looking like he had been up all night. He flopped into an ergonomic chair and dropped his complink onto the table in front of him.

"Drinking hard again Rodriguez?" demanded Wong. Nacho's fulminating glare told Charles how close the geneticist was to snapping. Hell, they were all pretty close to the edge, what with new arcanotech theories, insane timelines, and incredibly high expectations from above. Growling, Rodriguez slammed a disc into the reader and all eyes were drawn to the holographic projections suddenly dancing before them.

"Well, Charles, what do you think" asked Wong. He was an old-school cybernetics expert, uncomfortable with the parameters of arcanophysics, Charles' specialty. Charles looked around the table before answering. Old Karla, the ripper, was secure-veteran surgeons with no psych abnormalities were too valuable to become political collateral damage. Joseph Yip, the coder, was an invisible nonentity with no ambitions-also safe. Rodriguez and Wong, though, were both proud, ambitious scientists. Either of them could easily destroy Charles' budding career. Best to stay well clear of the fallout zone, he decided—if possible.

"Given the new data, we've come up with some mods to the proc and the expert programs now put our chances at 83% for subject A, and 71% for subject B. Plus or minus about 10%, of course."

Yesterday the odds had been much lower. Rodriguez had worked a minor miracle.

"Prep them both. The VIP observers will be here today, and we're going to give them something to observe." Wong was almost gleeful in his anticipation.

Joseph ran the simulation. As Karla made last minute notes, Charles watched Nacho surreptitiously. The older scientist was making chimpanzee gestures at Wong behind his back. Benson had an uncanny ability to sense when he was being ridiculed, and soon he was screaming:

"Shut up you quack! It wasn't my fault those chimpanzers escaped. They weren't supposed to have had live ammo! I barely escaped with my life..." Everyone had heard the story. The Tactical Team had found Benson under a desk whimpering "I don't wanna die" and the rest of the research team splattered all over the walls.

Charles grabbed his stuff and was out the door in seconds; Joseph and Karla hot on his heels. It was going to be a hot one for sure.

**CHAPTER 2:**

**Dangerous Experiment**

The demon glared balefully and tested its restraints, but to no avail. Even a Reconstructed wouldn't be able to break free of the lab's induction fields. Charles looked around. Joseph was working calmly at a massive computer console with two keyboards and five monitors, looking for all the world like a mild-mannered church organist (traditional, not RedGlare). Benson was hyping his spiel to the two VIPs from PubOrd, his arms jerking like a marionette's. Karla was in her element, imperiously ordering her lackeys around the operating theatre, giving the cybernetics the once-over. From time to time she checked something off her old-fashioned clipboard. Lucky talisman? Charles had never seen her without it. Not for the first time Charles wondered that two people (he and Karla) whose names shared a common etymological root could be so different, but then he dismissed it as an irrelevance. The monitoring station was unattended-where the heck was Nacho? Just as Charles was starting to panic, in he walked, twin coffee mugs steaming. Rodriguez put on his headset, and almost instantly went from haggard to hell-bent.

Benson caught Charles' signal and the Jeckyll to Hyde transformation began: from sociable ass-kissing sycophant to irritable ass-kicking dictator. The VIPs were whisked to their comfy chairs, and the technicians struck up the overture to this opera of misbegotten science.

Half an hour later the VIPs were getting bored. Benson took them out for a break. No matter, the risky stuff was still to come. Charles, now co-ordinating the project, glanced at his indicators: all still well up in the green. Charles allowed himself to feel just a trace of optimism. After all, with an 83% chance of success, on a major project, followed by commendations and bonuses all around, things were looking good...

One hour and twelve minutes in, Benson was back. Charles gave him the thumbs up. The demon was half-disassembled and barely twitching. The surgeons were installing the Holmgren capacitors in the arms and chest cavity. Benson slipped seamlessly back into the procedures, taking control back from Charles without a hitch.

At one hour and fifty-nine minutes exactly, an indicator shot into the yellow: the demon's brain activity was increasing beyond expected parameters. Benson, a control freak, ordered an energy spike to partially lobotomize the subject; better a stupid endproduct than an uncontrollable one.

The demon fixed Benson with an unreadable stare. Even behind 6 inches of supposedly indestructible hyperglass Charles felt a premonition. The meditechs proceeded with the spike, and the indicator once again read green.

Two hours and twenty minutes: Benson was explaining the shoulder-mounted plasma projectors to the VIPs, and how without they were without fire-control circuits, so that there would be no question of the new abomination using them until such time as its docility was not in doubt. Karla announced that the demon's regenerative powers were assimilating the capacitors much faster than expected. Benson was pleased: this indicated an affinity, which would increase the system's efficiency. The VIPs smiled. Charles glanced at Rodriguez, who suddenly met his gaze, and Charles could almost sense the crafty manic gears of the genetics genius' brain turning. Something was afoot.

Two hours and forty-five minutes into the process, it was time for the final implants: Fire-control circuits, allowing the abomination to control his new weaponry. Suddenly an announcement from Nacho: The Holmgren capacitors were on line. This presented a dilemma for Benson Wong. Connecting fire-control to an energised system was not part of the programme parameters; it would be significantly more dangerous for the surgeons.

Benson turned to Joseph and told him to run a check on the behaviour control systems, this demon had been a fairly co-operative subject, but one never knew...

Two minutes later: 64% acceptable. Benson gave Nacho a spiteful glance. The older scientist was openly grinning. He had known all along that the affinity could have this effect. Now Benson would have to face a potential glitch in his plans for redemption by ordering the rippers to proceed. To abort the procedure would cause him to lose face in front of the VIPs. The blood had drained from Wong's face. In his mind he heard the whine of the chimpanzer chainguns as his previous project went horribly awry. With a trembling voice he ordered Karla to proceed.

Everyone in the control centre held their breaths. Iron-nerved Karla connected first the left plasma projector, then the right. The former demon, now a cyborg called an 'abomination', obliged by not sending a destructive energy pulse through the circuits. Just as it seemed the danger was past, and everyone was beginning to relax, Charles noted, looking over Nacho's shoulder, that the abomination was drawing off power from the capacitors. Brain activity was rising at the same time. Behaviour control would drop as the abomination's brainpower increased. For the first time, Rodriguez looked worried.

"Spike him now!" ordered Benson. The VIPs turned at the strident tone of the shriek. They were now aware that something was quite wrong.

Suddenly, one of Karla's meditechs screamed as the abomination bit his hand off.

"Full power to the induction field. Karla, get out of there," Charles ordered, trying to avert a disaster. Karla directed her minions to carry the incapacitated meditech out of the theatre, as though this were no more than a routine helix rethread. Gathering her tools and picking up her clipboard, she followed them without haste.

The abomination howled in fury as it found it was suddenly unable to move. The induction field had effectively pinioned its limbs. But for how long? With the capacitors already charged and the fire control circuits live, the abomination could use the plasma projectors. Fortunately, there was only a very small amount of plasma in the cartridges, just enough for testing. Unfortunately, the abomination had been designed with the ability to regrow its plasma reserves. Then it could channel power through the plasma projectors in an attempt to break the induction field. Would it succeed?

"The affinity is very strong. The abomination will be able to replenish its plasma supplies quickly," commented Rodriguez, as he fed Joseph the new readings. The coder quickly brought a simulation on-line. Benson was reassuring the VIPs that there was nothing to worry about. But the computers did not agree: there was a 41% chance that the abomination would be free within the hour—unacceptable odds.

"We have a second subject", said Benson, and he ordered a terminal spike. Everyone was ready to relax when Charles noticed something that made his blood run cold.

The power cable through which the spikes were transmitted had been torn out and was lying on the floor of the lab. They had no way to kill their creation! The abomination was giving a feral grin to the scientists on the other side of the glass. While the research team exchanged worried glances, VIP #2 said, "Explain this 'affinity'."

Charles, brown-nosing, answered promptly, "Each demon is unique. Each reacts to arcanotechnology in a different way. If the reaction is especially favourable, this is called an 'affinity'. Naturally, the subjects are selected based on our predictions for a high affinity relative to the weapons systems being implanted. This abomination has a particularly powerful affinity for the Holmgren capacitors. If the subject has a similar affinity for the plasma projectors, we're history if we don't terminate it now."

The other VIP broke in, "The standard behaviour control circuits were successfully installed. Why can't we control it?"

Charles looked for help, but neither Wong nor Rodriguez cared to make a statement for the record. He took a deep breath, and said,

"The more intelligent the demon, the harder to control. This demon had been classified as type B-1, or intelligent, but controllable. Obviously, someone underestimated its potential." Charles paused. Someone, somewhere, would pay for his last comment. He continued, "It is clearly type A, too dangerous for normal use. I suspect it deliberately suppressed its mental activity until it had the capacitors on line, allowing it access to the power it needed to break the induction field at its normal settings. This would indicate that it is type A-0, diabolical."

"This has never happened before," said Benson. "Let's get some muscle in here and kill it before it kills us." An old-school solution to the problem, and undoubtedly the most sensible, given the circumstances.

The VIPs exchanged knowing glances. Charles felt a shiver running up his spine. He suspected that Buro execs were even more dangerous than the misbegotten spawn of black magic and arcanoscience that was currently biding its time on the other side of the glass.

One of the VIPs put his hand on Benson's shoulder.

"Get the Doctor," he told his partner. Everyone in the room had a doctorate, but there could be only one meaning. Benson Wong, suddenly looking 100 years old, hung his head as the VIP continued, "We'll bring in the Mad Scientist and see what she can do."

Charles grimaced. Sometimes the cure was worse than the disease.

**CHAPTER 3:**

**Dr. April Mucosa**

**Mad Scientist**

I'm surrounded by idiots. This makes me mad. So they call me a Mad Scientist. This makes me even madder. I'm a vindictive person, but I don't hold grudges. Grudges are for amateurs. Vendetta is for pros. I also can't stand people who lie to me. Even the BuroSuits have learned to watch what they say to me.

So, when I got a call from some minion, I wanted the straight dope. Right to the point and no stories, as I always say. He hemmed and hawed until I threatened to cut him off, then he told me about the situation.

Point: A new abomination was being uncooperative at BTR5. So what? Abominations are always uncooperative.

Point: The abomination was armed with twin plasma projectors, and had the capability to generate its own plasma over time. Of course: The whole purpose of making abominations in the first place was to have more firepower.

Point: The abomination was temporarily trapped in a sealed operating theatre. So why call me? Just send in a Tactical Team and take care of it before it becomes a problem.

Point: Aside from being armed, dangerous, and hostile, the subject was ideal, and the Buro wanted to try and resolve the situation without using the final solution. Natch. Crazy decisions like this were always being made by someone whose butt wouldn't end up BBQ'ed by a demon with a plasma cannon.

Point: I told the minion I'd be ready in five minutes, have an air car waiting. I guess maybe I am a Mad Scientist after all.

**CHAPTER 4:**

Grenade Posse

**Netherworld Punks**

That night Spike and Biff decided to blow up the United Building.

Biff and Spike were best friends for life. They'd been in trouble together ever since primary school. They had flunked courses together, gone to summer school together, and been despised by everyone else together. Now they were ready to hit the headlines together. They might even die together.

Biff dropped by Spike's mother's house right after work. No one was home, so he let himself in and had a shower. Since Biff was a garbageman, this was a good thing. Especially since he didn't have to pay the water bill. Water was very expensive, had been for years.

When Biff got out, Spike was waiting in the kitchen, wearing stained overalls as usual. Spike had cool-looking shiny tools sticking out of all the pockets of his greasy grimy mechanic's uniform. He had borrowed them from work. Spike was an assistant at a garage/towing/junkyard place owned by a friend of his Uncle Mario. It didn't pay much, which was why he still lived with his mother, but there was lots of nifty broken stuff for him to play with, so Spike didn't mind.

Spike was watching the news on the wallscreen. He had salvaged it from a scrap heap, and had been able to get fully 75% of the matrix to function. Needless to say, the picture wasn't perfect. But hey, what was, in this day and age?

"Yo, Biffy, 'ssup man?"

"Dunno, Spick, 'sson the wall?"

"Like, some trash 'bout the United Building. Hey, nice butt." This last as Biff paraded nude in front of the wallscreen en route to his clothes.

"Yeah. That's some butt-ugly art in front, eh." The United Building was the Buro-sponsored excuse for a cultural centre in this part of Boston. The Buro rep was going on about their new project, a strange organic construction of no apparent purpose.

"Got that right, 'cept it's alive, so, like, it's not really art."

"The dude just called it art. That makes it art, right Spick?"

"Course not. You got, like, trash fer brains?" If Biff weren't so dense this could have been the start of a great philosophical discussion.

"Yeah. Anyway, 't we gonna do t'night?"

"Dunno. There's some Streetfighting on at 8, like."

"Nah, let's go down to the YooBee and check out that thing."

"It's called, like, an Arcanoseed."

"Yeah, whatever. Wanna spraypaint it or blow it up or something?"

"You're, like, demented, know that?"

"You should talk, Mr. Monkeywrencher. Remember that expressway you didn't like?"

"Like hey, we did a great job on the foundations, eh."

"Like hey. When it went down it was jus' like video." In fact, it had been on the news.

"It was video, remember. We like watched it a dozen times at least."

"Yeah. But why just blow up the art. Why not the whole YooBee?"

"Like, why not?"

"Yeah, why not."

That night Spike and Biff decided to blow up the United Building.

**CHAPTER 5:**

**Tactical Team**

**Buro Cops**

_Tactical Control Headquarters_

Coordinator: What's our status? All teams report.

Dispatcher 1: Team 1 engaged.

Dispatcher 2: Team 2 engaged.

Dispatcher 3: Team 3 retrieval.

Dispatcher 4: Team 4 engaged.

Dispatcher 5: Team 5 debriefing.

Dispatcher 6: Team 6 standing by.

Dispatcher 7: Team 7 off-duty.

Coordinator: Situations? All monitors report.

Monitor 1: Zone 1 green.

Monitor 2: Zone 2 yellow. Riots in progress in Chicago. Team 4 en route.

Monitor 3: Zone 3 green.

Monitor 4: Zone 4 red. Gangs attacking LA Tower. Teams 1 and 2 in place.

Monitor 5: Zone 5 green. Team 3 returning to Europe Central.

Monitor 6: Zone 6 red. Terrorist attacks unchecked in Cairo.

Coordinator: Put the Regional Commish on line.

Commissioner: TacCon, we need intervention. The PubOrd squads are out of their depth here. The perps are real pros, probably mercs.

Coordinator: Hold tight. I'm sending two platoons of BuroMil Elite.

Commissioner: BuroMil!? They'll tear my city apart!

Coordinator: Please defer to Colonel Griffith, commanding.

Commissioner: Have you flipped, TacCon?! Griffith? Mr. Napalm Sunrise? We're not fighting a war…

Coordinator: The war against terror is never-ending, Commissioner. TacCon out.

Dispatcher 6: I could send in Team 6, sir.

Coordinator: Forget it. I always keep one Tactical Team in reserve for a real emergency. Tell me when Team 5 is ready to go.

Dispatcher 5: Team 5 is at 80%, sir. 1 KIA, 3 WIA. The rest will be ready to go in 30 minutes.

Coordinator: Not fast enough. Send Griffith to Cairo with two platoons of BuroMil Elite.

Liaison: Yes, sir.

Dispatcher 6: The Tactical Teams are expert in anti-terrorist operations, sir. We could save lives…

Coordinator: Listen, Six. You're new here, so I'll explain this, but only once. Our priorities are: First, to protect Buro interests around the globe. Second, to maintain order. Distant third, to protect consumer lives. You got that?

Dispatcher 6: Yes, sir.

Coordinator: Good girl. Cairo is low on the Buro's priority list these days. We won't send in a Team unless the situation gets a lot worse.

Dispatcher 4: Team 4 has arrived on scene. Team Leader taking charge of dispersing the rioters.

Coordinator: Tell me when we're in the green. Can we get more on the LA situation?

Monitor 4: One minute, sir.

Monitor 1: Request for a Tactical Team from BTR5 in Boston. Abomination clean-up. TSTP, Sir.

Coordinator: Aha. Top Secret Top Priority, eh? Send in Team 6. Five, I need that team on standby ASAP. Always have one in reserve…

**CHAPTER 6:**

**Dragon Adept**

**Versatile Combatant**

Mission Log

05:27:00

My chronometer tells me it has been only five hours and twenty-seven minutes since we left the present, but too much has happened. For one, the mission is a write-off. A total SNAFU. I'm the only one left of the mission team, and I almost didn't make it either. Let me take it from the beginning.

The portal crawler took us through the portal to the Netherworld without incident. It was my first visit, but everyone else had been at least a couple of times. We had all been given codenames for the operation. Mine was Lowjob, which sucked. The big bruiser's was Buttukketty, but it suited him, and he didn't seem to mind. The hacker's codename was Voyeur, and he was one bona fide perv. Made me glad I wasn't a woman. Our leader was Ratworth, but I think that Weaselly would have suited him better, given his later behaviour. Anyway, there we were in the Netherworld, beside a whirlpool of blood, and...wait a sec. Another PubOrd squad is looking for me, I'm going to have to move.

05:38:32

OK, looks like I'm in the clear for now. So, the whirlpool of blood, right. A creepy place like I'd never seen. While waiting for the new portal to open, the one that would take us to 2056, Ratworth, a netherworld vet, told us about the time he was forced at gunpoint to jump into it. Apparently it's not real blood, but I digress.

After a while, the next portal opened and we stepped through into the future. As soon as I took one look around, I knew that freedom was hosed. Freedom, and the environment. One breath of the smoggy soup of an atmosphere and I broke out coughing and choking. Did I mention I'm a non-smoker? Lucky for me I was packing a gas mask. Voyeur, a chainsmoker, didn't seem to mind at all, and Buttukketty obviously had a ginormous pain threshold, but anyway...Just about then a police wagon came rolling down the street. We obviously weren't your average consumers, we didn't belong here, and they knew it. An amplified voice was yelling at us not to make any sudden moves, while a bunch of armoured dudes that reminded me of the stormtroopers from Star Wars piled out of the wagon and onto the street. I figured we ought to take cover, because these cops were packing some pretty large guns, of a kind that would make your typical police magnum look like a Saturday night special. Voyeur, who was packing our electronics gear in a briefcase, made the mistake of going for his Uzi as he dodged onto the sidewalk. Four of the cops opened fire with these monster guns. Later found out they were called 'Godhammers'. Well, that hacker must have had a horseshoe up his ass and a four-leaf clover in his hair, because they didn't get a single direct hit. But his briefcase took at least three, and it exploded all over the place, with the blast knocking Voyeur off his feet.

Well, when he saw the briefcase going up, Ratworth decided to bug out back through the portal, before it closed. He left us with one poignant word of encouragement: "Sheeyit!" Then he was gone.

Now, I don't know how that big bruiser got to be so fast. Maybe he was an ex-football player who did a ton of steroids in high school, or something. Anyway, when I looked back, he had crossed the twenty metres or so between us and the cops, and was wading in with his huge hands, reaching for necks and so on. At this point one of the cops started gunning for me, and I was forced to duck around a corner into an alley. I leaped up to a fire escape and doubled back.

Buttukketty had lost his right hand, blown clean off, but four of the six stormtrooper types were down, and from the angles of their limbs, I doubted that they'd ever move again. As I watched, one of the two remaining cops slammed a new clip into his gun and opened fire, full auto, on big B. Too bad for him he missed—how anybody could miss a man that huge is a mystery to me—and wasted his buddy. Buttukketty smiled and reached for the last cop.

Just then, the driver of the wagon gunned it. I squeezed off a shot, but it bounced off the windshield, which was obviously proof against the .38 caliber slugs I had to offer. Anyway, the wagon must have weighed lots, because it just rolled over both Buttukketty and the last cop, like a monster truck over a subcompact. The copper screamed in terror, but big B just grimaced as his chest was crushed. He gasped out his last words: "Was that supposed to hurt or something..." and we were down to two.

Hey, looks like I'll have to move yet again. Don't these guys ever give up?

06:03:47

Well, I sure wish I had a map, but from my vantage point up here it looks like if I can just mix with the big crowd in front of that building over there— looks like it's called the United Building—I might be able to lose them once and for all. But, while I'm catching my breath, I'll bring the mission log up to date.

So, I decided to see if Voyeur was still breathing. He was, but from the cerebrospinal fluid leaking out of his ear, I could tell that he was in pretty rough shape. Fortunately, I'm a certified paramedic in addition to being a professor of mathematics and a few other things. Unfortunately, I couldn't just stroll across the street to where he lay comatose, because I was pretty sure the driver would pop me as soon as I came into view. Then, hallelujah! That driver got out of the police wagon to check and see if any of his buddies needed his help. What a moron! I dropped him with a single shot to the neck above his body armour, and skipped across the street to help Voyeur.

It didn't take me long to determine that he wouldn't survive being carried over my shoulders across town to where there was supposedly a friendly black-market doc. I decided on a gamble: I dragged one of the cops over, and stripped off his body armour and gear, and managed to get Voyeur into about half of it. Then I went over to the wagon to call for an ambulance. Luckily the driver had left his computer terminal logged in. Too bad when I jumped back out of the vehicle, I could see another one of these wagons coming down the street, and I was willing to bet it had another squad of guys inside. Based on what was painted on the side of the van next to me, these were 'PubOrd'. I didn't have time to think back to whether I had been briefed on them or not, because I had only just enough time to jam the hacker into the rest of the body armour and drag the dead cop into the alley before the reinforcements arrived.

As I looked for cover I could see a medical helicopter on its way. With any luck Voyeur would get taken to a hospital, get treated, use his skills to hack into the network via a medical computer, and then escape and meet me at the rendezvous point. Then we could both take a portal back to the Netherworld. Yeah, I figured he'd need LOTS of luck, because the scenario I just outlined was probably less than a 5% long-shot. Maybe less than 0.5%...but it was better than no chance at all.

This looks like my chance to dodge the PubOrd squads—I think they've missed me. Better get down to street level and try to make it over to the United Building and the safety of the crowd.

**CHAPTER 7:**

**Muckraking Journalist**

**Pledged Operative**

January Andersson-Mendoza was running late for work, so she didn't have time to spend half an hour doing her makeup and another quarter of an hour admiring her handiwork in the mirror. She did have time for her ritual cursing of Gregor Mendel and all of the other inventors of genetics for being so very wrong. Dead wrong, in fact.

All logic known to January agreed that since her father was a tall, handsome, blond Scandinavian with chiseled features, and her mother was a narrow-waisted black-haired latina beauty with flashing dark eyes, that she should have inherited the best features of both and been gifted with stunning beauty of both face and figure. But illogically, the fickle fates had declined to give her father's high cheekbones, or her mother's lithe grace, instead bestowing his powerful shoulders, her round face, and the diminuative stature of her abuelita. So, damn Gregor Mendel, and whatever Buro geneticists had been standing idly around allowing Mother Nature to curse her with inferior looks, when they could and should have been manipulating her parents' DNA to produce a goddess. Yes, they could all drop dead of a hideous arcanovirus, and good riddance. Although Jan suspected that Mendel at least might already be dead, since hadn't he been born during the cold war, in the dark ages before the World Government? Jan's ancient history was a bit unclear.

In any case, January was not the type of girl to let reality give her the type of appearance she didn't want. Plastic surgery had given her the face she thought she should have been born with, while breast implants, the highest heels a girl with her small feet could manage, and a lifetime membership at a nice health club had done the same for her body. Now, she was pursuing her dream of being a famous television journalist. Unfortunately, her career had not followed the ideal path she had envisaged. Her latin temper was as short as they came, and her powerful right hook would have done credit to a valkyrie. So that when she had slapped a media exec for getting a little too fresh with her in an express elevator, she had broken his jaw and bounced his head off the shatterproof glass hard enough to destroy the expensive microminiaturised electronics implanted stylishly in his right temple.

Goodbye, any chance of a cushy job with one of the Buro-approved meganetworks. Hello, Boston Beat, a small local network with a modest budget that strived for an alternative reputation without being so overtly countercultural that it was closed down with extreme prejudice. So Jan toiled in relative obscurity, interviewing local athletes, covering local cultural events, and indirectly serving the official public good by digging up dirt on any local politicians that were out of favour with the Buro of Public Order, the enforcement arm of the World Government.

January, who liked to be called Jan and hated being called Janet with a fury-provoking passion, grabbed her shoes and rushed out the door, cursing the clock for not giving her more time and (under her breath) the Buro, for inventing clocks. With an ease born of long practice, she put her shoes on with one hand while in the elevator, finishing just in time to tippity-tap out daintily across the authentic-looking marble floor of the apartment lobby. The ancient doorman, a withered white haired man who despite his years was always standing straight with the perfect posture of one who spent years in the military, greeted her with his customary enthusiasm and sent her on her way with:

"I'll be watching for you today, our own little Hurricane Jan, the best muckraker in Boston. Knock 'em out!"

As usual, she flashed her most insincere smile and flipped him the finger as she tippity-tapped her way out the front door and onto the street. She boarded a bus, changed to the monorail, and soon was at the corporate headquarters of Boston Beat—four floors of an office building that had been built sometime in the previous century. Which meant, since it was now 2056 by the old reckoning, that it was far from state of the art. She waited impatiently while security scanned her pass, and as soon as they waved her in, she bolted for the elevators with a tippity-tippity-tap. She was only four minutes late for work, but she knew that her supervisor would mention it anyway, because he was that kind of jerk. In fact she didn't even manage to make it to her workstation before he was greeting her with his usual sarcasm:

"Good afternoon, Princess. Did you get enough beauty sleep today? We need a person of your refined cultural taste for this one. Boston Beat needs someone to cover the art event at the YooBee this afternoon. Enjoy your assignment, and I'm sure you'll do the network proud. Take Media Van #2. Joe the cameraman will double as your driver. You can read the details en route. Hasta luego, muchacha."

He tossed a datastick onto her workstation, spun on his heel, and vanished back into his office. Jan hissed at his back as his door slid shut:

"Drop dead!" She fantasized about stomping her high heels all over his body until he was a twitching mass of pain. The United Building? What a joke. And Joe was a decent driver but a sorry excuse for a cameraman. Why did she always get given the crap jobs? Life just wasn't fair.

**CHAPTER 8:**

**Dr. April Mucosa**

**Mad Scientist**

**Air Car**

**Vehicle State**

Pretty interesting, actually. An abomination that retains a genius-level intelligence after the conversion process, a process that usually involves brain damage. Unfortunately, you can't really negotiate with an entity that knows you don't trust it, and has figured out that you are just waiting for an opportune time to destroy it safely.

Those scientists were idiots. They should have known better than to listen to the BuroSuits as opposed to what their data was telling them. I should probably have had the Tactical Team eradicate the entire BTR5 research team and the two suits along with the abomination—the tidiest solution.

However, I am feeling a little perverse today…

Point: This new abomination is far more interesting than any previous abomination that I have observed.

Point: The BuroSuits want to avoid destroying such a promising subject, so if anything goes wrong I will make it their fault.

Point: The Tactical Team won't be here for a few more minutes anyway, so why not observe the subject in action.

So I had the abomination released from the lab. It jumped a rocket sled and made for the city at maximum speed. Civilian casualties could be very high. Have I made a mistake?

Point: A Jammer portal is opening across from the United Building, right in the path of the fleeing rogue asset. This will make it look like I have used the new abomination to combat the Jammers.

Point: Maybe I should start believing in luck. Or at least not reject the concept without further investigation and analysis.

No, only a Mad Scientist would believe in luck.

**CHAPTER 9:**

**Final Brawl**

"Hamlet, Oedipus Rex, Dirty Harry—the classic stories always end in blood."

"This is where it all goes down."

"This is January Andersson-Mendoza, reporting live for Boston Beat. Today we are at the United Building. Here behind me is a strange structure that some are calling living art. The official name for this bizarre work that seems to be part plant, part animal, and part building is 'Arcanoseed'. I have with me Dr. Johannes van Allen, the scientist/artist/engineer in charge of Project Arcanoseed. Dr. Johannes, many of our viewers are curious as to the significance of the name. Why 'arcano', why 'seed'?"

"Thank you Janet…"

"That is NOT my name!"

"I'm very sorry. Please calm down, Miss Mendoza."

"I am calm, MISTER van Allen."

"Doctor! Oh, I see—yes, I suppose I deserved that. Shall we continue?"

"Please do."

"Old buildings fall into decay and eventually crumble, correct? Whereas plants renew themselves and even grow over time. So the idea here is to create living buildings that can heal themselves."

"Sounds like a good idea, but why start with a piece of art? Why not start with an actual building?"

"Simple, young lady. The technology is still in its infancy, so we are looking to observe it. The public will have the opportunity to observe it also. They will see it as art, while engineers see it as a type of science project, correct?"

"So, those two men working on the base of your Arcanoseed, are they artists, or gardeners, or janitors, or technicians…what would their titles be?"

"What men? HEY! What do you think you are doing? Get away from there! I'm going to call security…"

"Doctor, please come back and finish the interview…I guess not. Well, dear viewers, that was Doctor Johannes van Allen, now chasing a couple of what appear to be graffiti artists caught in an act of vandalism. I would like to take this opportunity to share a message from the Buro of Public Order: Every act of vandalism is an act of disrespect towards every consumer. The World Government CARES for YOU. Look, here comes a wagon of the PubOrd Squad to show us the exact definition of caring. And over there, what looks to be one of the Reconstructed, icons of responsible enforcement ever since the India Insurgencies. Take a good look at the face of safety. Surely this is overkill for dealing with a couple of graffiti artists? Or maybe not. Remember, "It's not overwhelming unless it's overwhelming force."

"Look over there! Get a close-up of that, quick you fool! Yes, there is more to this situation than meets the eye. You can see a portal opening on the other side of the square. What luck! I do believe we are witnessing a Jammer attack. Now watch carefully as the forces of good teach those evil anarchists a lesson. What the Hell? A plasma bolt into the crowd? Some Jammer agents must be infiltrated, disguised as consumers. What cowardice. But which of the good guys fired the plasma bolt? Let's get a little closer to the action…

"That motorcycle is going well above the speed limit for a civic zone, about 6 demerit points worth I would estimate, but the PubOrd Wagon is turning to face the portal, where a bunch of misfits are jumping through. Madre de dios! Unbelievable! The Wagon has been destroyed by a single rocket fired from a shoulder launcher by the motorcyclist…while his, no, her bike was airborne. Jajaja, this is better than the gladiator channel.

"Well, the Reconstructed is making short work of the Jammer fire team, and I see an aircar inbound. Perhaps a high-ranking Buro officer about to take charge of the situation…"

"Ow ow ow. Are you OK? Good. Camera still rolling? Great.

"That was quite a blast. Knocked us both right off our feet. Apparently those two graffiti artists left some powerful explosives at the base of the Arcanoseed. It's history. Of course, its roots may still be intact, so who knows, maybe it will repair itself over time, much to Doctor van Allen's delight.

"Back to the present, where the Reconstructed has finally fallen, laid low by a silly-looking homemade cyborg. Whoa, will you look at that! An abomination with two huge cannons built into its shoulders, heading straight for the portal. I don't think the Jammer cyborg's little railgun is going to even slow that monster down. Nope, he's fried. Talk about the strong arm of the law. The aircar is following the walking artillery, no doubt observing this new bioweapon with interest.

"There goes a consumer, sprinting for the portal, which seems to be closing. Guess he hopes whatever is on the other side is better than Boston. I hope he winds up in Cairo, or someplace even worse…

"Interesting. The monster is going after him, right through the portal. PubOrd is really taking the battle to the anarchists. Well, it was a bit hot, but with the portal closed, it looks like things are finished here. The Jammers have been defeated again. Let's see what the public has to say.

"Excuse me, consumers. Can you two believe what you just saw?"

"Like hey, it was awesome."

"Yeah, totally worth it."

"Wait, aren't you the two graffiti artists who blew up the Arcanoseed?"

"You know, it must have been, like, two other dudes."

"Totally. Spike here doesn't know a thing about how to plant explosives."

"Lady, can you settle a bet for us?"

"No, I don't think so. I don't go for guys in overalls."

"No, not that, hey. Was that thing, like, art?"

"Well, what do you know, dear viewers. An intellectual. Shall we give him your opinion? You, the sophisticated faithful tuned in to Boston Beat? Was it art? Green button for yes, red for no. OK, boys, anything to say while we wait for the results—about 30 seconds more?"

"Yeah. Hi Spike's Mom, if you are watching, I'm sorry for taking the last of your instant soy coffee."

"And Mom, I don't think I'll be home for supper tonight...Hey, Lady, are you, like, the famous Hurricane Jan? Nice meeting you—love your work."

"Thanks. And the answer is…YES! The Arcanoseed was art. Move along please, boys."

"Like, bye."

"Yeah, bye."

"Buh-bye. This has been January Andersson-Mendoza, here on the spot as it happened, United Building, Boston…OK Joe, let's call it a day."

**Epilogue:**

The Tactical Team Leader asked the Mad Scientist how she had managed to resolve the situation so quickly and without loss of life. She pointed out that a choice between fighting the Tactical Team and dying and fighting the Jammer rebels and winning, was no choice at all, because even an abomination would rather kick ass than get kicked.

The TTL then asked if letting the abomination go through the portal was part of the plan. She pointed out that this was, of course, classified information, and wasn't the Tactical Team still on duty. Straight to the point and no stories. She then hopped into her air car and was gone.

The TTL took a statement from the disconsolate Doctor van Allen while the team waited for the recall order, and transportation to the next crisis.

And that was that: just another day like any other day, in 2056.

**Dedication:**

To Braz King. Hope to see you again, my brother, on the other side of the Portal.


End file.
